Psychogenic
by FrankieSunflower
Summary: There's a fancypants new wizard in town with a job to do, so he needs to get the resident werewolves out of the way. Naturally, his big idea is to dose Stiles up with something that makes him smell irresistible to werewolves. WIP. Sorry about the hiatus.
1. Intro: Sniff Sniff

Deaton tucked Stile's results into a folder and leaned on the counter. 'You said there was a new guy working at the cafeteria yesterday, and that he wasn't there today. I agree that he's probably guy who slipped this organic chemical into your lunch. Let's only hope you can catch up to him before he gets to finish his experiment.'

'Out of everyone in the school who deserves to get mobbed,' Stiles muttered. 'Why me? There are literally four werewolves at our school. If this guy knows about them, why the hell did he drug _me_?'

'I'd have thought that was obvious,' Deaton said. 'He doesn't intend to kill Derek's pack, or hurt them. He just needs them out of the way. Almost all of them see you on a daily basis, so you're the perfect distraction. Try to be thankful for that at least.'

'Oh, of course. I can't go near my friends, and I'm on the radar of every werewolf within sniffing distance. I'm real thankful.'

'It'll be out of your system in a few days,' Deaton reminded him. 'You only need to avoid the pack until then.'

'How am I supposed to that when we have to go to school together?' Stiles whined. The thought of Scott or Isaac or the others jumping him in chem or, god forbid, during lacrosse … he shuddered.

'You could try covering the smell,' Deaton said with a hopeful shrug. 'Wolfsbane is a possibility, if you use small quantities, of course. Just enough so that if they get close, they'll be repelled.'

'You're saying I have to wear wolfsbane perfume?'

'It's an idea.'

Helpless, Stiles trudged out to his car. As soon as he got home, he was going to have a very long shower. And then roll in wolfsbane.

It didn't help his mood that he'd had a disagreement (read: bitchfight) with Derek the weekend before about whether or not he was pack. As far as he was concerned, he was. His best friend was in the pack. He had risked life, limb and just about everything else to help out in the past. At the very least, he deserved to be made an honorary pack member. But nooo. Derek God-Kills-Kittens-When-I-Laugh Hale didn't think so. Stiles = Human, therefore Stiles ≠ Pack.

Under any other circumstances, Stiles would be thrilled to be sitting in the same column as Lydia, but he was too sulky over Derek's adamant rejection, and how ridiculous it was to even care whether or not Derek rejected him, to fully appreciate the tentative camaraderie building between himself and his long-term crush.

So yeah. It was one thing to have what Erica had flippantly called a "domestic" with Derek over whether he had earned the right (which he had) to be a member of his furry Mile-High Club. But now he couldn't even properly sulk in solitude, because some frickin' mojo-working pagan Houdini had decided to paint a huge target on the back of Stiles' head, and every werewolf within a mile, best friend included, was voraciously drawn to it.

Stiles tried to silently count his blessings as he drove home, his Jeep doing the noise-making for him as it grumbled over asphalt and up the driveway. At least the Alpha Dickhead in question hadn't caught the scent of whatever werewolf-braining "organic chemical" had been slipped into Stiles' lunch the day before. The others, whatever Stiles said to Deaton, were in some way manageable. Isaac, the first to indicate that anything weird was happening, had only really lost it when standing close to Stiles in the change room, and Danny and Scott had been able to pull him off (despite Scott clearly coming under the same influence. Stiles was still thanking God for Scott's self-control). Jackson, who had a severe lack of self-control, fortunately had pride in spades, and that and Lydia's presence helped when he too fell victim to close proximity to Stiles out the front of the school. Boyd, by observation, learned to surreptitiously block his nose whenever he so much as walked past Stiles in the corridor, and Erica, despite trying to sniff him out of brash, silly curiosity, had been kept under adequate control by Boyd.

It's not that Stiles didn't trust Derek to keep his claws to himself. It's just that … well, Stiles didn't trust him to keep his claws to himself. But, hopefully, the others had told Derek in time about Stiles' strange condition, and if he decided to follow up, Derek would follow up with Deaton, who Scott knew Stiles was planning to visit straight after school.

His home was empty, and Stiles went straight upstairs. He contemplated googling, whatever help it would do, but somehow he couldn't find the energy. Where would he start? "How to avoid ravenous wolves when you smell like a juicy steak"?

He messed around online for a little while, but after reading the same sentence three times and attacking the refresh button when a gif wouldn't load quickly enough, he switched off the screen to save himself the frustration. He'd take a long shower, make some dinner, rub a little of the wolfsbane he totally hadn't hidden in his desk drawer for emergency purposes (totally acceptable because hey, Batman had a kryptonite ring) on his hands and pulse points, get into his pyjamas and go to bed. That was the plan.

Of course, after he got out of the shower and while he was making dinner, he heard a noise coming from upstairs. Being a semi-connoisseur of horror movies, he knew the last thing he should do was go upstairs. But, being Stiles, he went upstairs anyway.

And there he was.

Derek froze in Stiles' room by the open window, and Stiles could see his pupils dilate and his irises glow red from the doorway.

'I get that Deaton told you about school today.'

Derek nodded sharply. 'He did.'

'Then you know that this is just about the worst place you could be right now.'

Derek's eyes flashed and Stiles shifted from foot to foot, wondering if it was possible for him to survive the short dash to the front door and get to his car in time. Then he saw his car keys on the desk, right by where Derek was standing, and emotionally wilted.

'I decided it was safe for me to check out for myself. I can manage the effect better than they can.'

'You decided,' Stiles echoed, disbelieving. Leftover anger from their other argument flared up. Trust Derek not to give him the right to be called pack, but involve him in pack business anyway. 'Yeah. You decided that it was okay for you to come here, even though you know that I've just been turned into a walking trap, because you're the alpha and you can do whatever you want. You _mean_, you decided that you could _probably_ manage the effect better, and you were willing to risk my life just to do your own investigating.'

'Because you've made a hell of a lot of progress on your own, I bet,' Derek spat. His eyes were practically glowing. 'This is my pack that's under threat here. I have a responsibility to them –'

'But not to me.'

Derek's nostrils flared and he advanced, and Stiles retreated and realized that somehow he had put the doorframe between himself and the hallway. The impact of it against his back made him jump a little, deflating the rage had kept him from running, and suddenly he could feel his heartbeat and his breathing, and it was almost humiliating to know that he was so scared, and that Derek surely knew it.

Derek stopped abruptly in front of Stiles, and hesitated. Stiles couldn't tell if he was sniffing the air, but he sure as hell knew that Derek was close enough to smell it. Whatever fumes he was giving off that had had Isaac crowding him into a locker and clawing at his undershirt.

Derek seemed to become aware of himself, and took a measured step back. His eyes faded once again to green, and he cautiously looked from Stiles' eyes, to his mouth, down to his chest, and then redirected his gaze.

'Do you think you'd recognize the guy from the cafeteria, the one who served you that day, if you saw him again?'

Stiles cleared his throat. 'I don't know. Do you think you know who it might be?'

'No. But right now, that's the only lead we have. That, and if Deaton can find the origin of whatever it was he put in your lunch.'

Stiles tried to will his heartbeat to slow down. If there was a crisis, it was past. He hoped.

'Is that all?' he asked, and Derek shot him a look. There was a lengthy pause. Then Derek released the breathe Stiles' hadn't noticed he was holding.

'I thought … I thought I would recognize it. The drug. I thought it might have been used on me before by someone.'

Stiles felt his eyebrows shoot up and struggled to bring them down again. 'Someone's drugged you before? And they're still alive?'

'No, actually, she's dead,' Derek said flatly. 'But I think she might have ingested a similar thing to get my attention.'

'When was this?' Stiles asked, latching onto the interest. It helped dissolve the left-over fear.

'Before I met you. Not that it's any of your business,' Derek said. Then he drew a hand over his face, pinching his nose for a moment. 'I should go.'

Stiles nodded, relieved, and gestured to the hallway behind him. 'Feel free to use the door.'

But Derek was already climbing out the window.

Stiles waited for a minute, until he was sure Derek wouldn't hear him, to mutter 'freak.'

Half a mile away and trying not to feel the distance, Derek resisted the urge to turn and run right back. Stiles' whole room had smelt of it. His shoes in the corner, his jacket on the computer chair, his desk, and Derek's hand had brushed the strap of Stiles' schoolbag leaning against the wall when he entered the room, and even that much contact had left a lingering scent on his fingers that he kept getting the urge to press to his upper lip. Trust a magic man to take advantage of their sensitivity to _smell_. Fucking low cheap shot.

And better yet, Stiles didn't seem to understand what he was doing.

… _you were willing to risk my life just to do your own investigating …_

Surely Stiles didn't think Derek was going to kill him. Not if he knew what the smell was actually doing to him, what it had actually done to Isaac, to Scott. But if they had been the only ones directly affected, and the others hadn't explained, then it stood to reason that they may not have wanted to correct Stiles' assumption that their attacks had been brought on by bloodlust. Derek couldn't imagine that even Isaac, budding creeper extraordinaire, would want to tell Stiles exactly what he would have done to him if left uninterrupted.

What _Derek_ could have done to him. He had crossed the room in anger, but the moment he came within a few feet of Stiles, a new desire had become almost completely overpowering. He was amazed Stiles couldn't smell it on himself. This feeling wasn't the same as the change. Derek had no words for what hit him. It was something deep, animalistic, but not the wolf. And it had felt _right_. Rather than being wary and suspicious, Derek instantly became downright paranoid. No chemical compound or aphrodisiac was supposed to feel that natural.

Whoever this magician was, and whatever he was doing in Beacon Hills, he had dangerously powerful magic on his side, and a whiff of it on a teenage boy had almost demolished Derek's composure in an instant.

This called for a meeting. At the very least, he could get all of his betas up to date. And they needed the reminder. Stiles was very, very officially off limits to every single pack member.

Derek included.


	2. Noddy No-Friends

'Oh, so _now_ you pick up your phone.'

'Stiles, what's going on? Derek said we can't go anywhere near you until the stuff has completely worn off.'

'He what? What, like, not at all? I'm banned from having friends until this thing blows over?'

'I tried telling him that we could manage it. I mean, aside from happened in the change room, everything was fine, right?'

'Exactly.'

'I guess he won't know if we hang out a little. You know, in crowded places, where there are distractions.'

'So long as it's safe, yeah.'

There was just enough doubt in the voices on both sides of the phone, his own and Scott's, to leave Stiles feeling unsettled and antsy when he went to bed. Sleep wouldn't come. He was barely able to feel tired. His mind kept skipping back to that moment when Derek had stopped still in his tracks in Stiles' room, holding himself back. Nothing had felt so much like relief and terror at once. But that was Derek, really, wasn't it? Having seen how strong he was, how merciless he could be, you had to feel relieved he wasn't evil, but you couldn't help feeling just as terrified, knowing he wasn't good.

Stiles rolled over and thumped his pillow. Whatever. There were better things to think about. He had an assignment that needed handing in. He had friends, who he had to find a way to spend time with, without getting them in trouble with their asshole Alpha.

He had to figure out how to cope with being a werewolf magnet for the next however many days.

'This was only supposed to be for a couple of days.'

'Whoever this man is, he's busy, and he needs any territorial packs out of the way while he works here. This drug is designed to stay in your bloodstream for at least a week. Maybe longer, if he finds new ways to slip it to you. Do you have any regular haunts, cafes, diners? Because if you do, you'll want to avoid them for the time being.'

'I have to eat, dude. Being me takes a lot of energy.'

'Then find a way to make yourself inconspicuous.'

Stiles was going to personally find this wizard douchebag and … well, he didn't know yet, but whatever it was, was going to very unpleasant.

Jackson and Isaac had avoided Stiles easily, despite lacrosse. He hadn't even seen Boyd all day. Erica kept finding ways to prod him or toss things at him in classes and in the cafeteria. Scott kept catching his eye across the corridor and in class, half apologetic, half annoyed. They had to find a reason to get placed on separate tables in chem. Stiles hated his new lab partner, and Scott had the grace to look guilty when he got to work with Alison. He wore his heart on his sleeve about it and Stiles appreciated that much.

He tried wearing a bit of wolfsbane rubbed on his neck, wrists and dotted about elsewhere at random points on his body, but he didn't know if it was working. One of the downsides of not being able to talk to any of the others, he didn't know what he could actually do to help. He hoped, remembering the incident of the wolfsbane in his bag when Scott had first started turning, that he hadn't, that he _wouldn't_ put on too much and cause a scene at school.

There had been no sign in two days of the grumpus. Stiles wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and where the pack was with the whole wizard business. He hoped Deaton would tell him. Nobody else in the know about the whole werewolves-in-Beacon-Hills thing was organized.

But Deaton had been able to give Stiles a lead. And as if Stiles wasn't going to follow the hell out of it.

'A distant relative of the wolfsbane family,' Deaton had said.

'Of course it is,' Stiles had said.

'Called "ambrosia", because of its near-intoxicating qualities. It messes with a werewolf's natural drives, the way the other kinds do, but in a unique way. It doesn't shut down the human side the way ordinary wolfsbane does. It jump starts a different instinct, so the whole individual is overwhelmed, both human and wolf.'

'Which is why Isaac didn't shift when he was trying to claw me to death in the change rooms the first day?'

'In a way,' Deaton had said, lips quirking up at the corner. Stiles hadn't pushed it. At least he had somewhere to work from. For starters, he could go back to the beginning, and find something to mask the smell. Something that covered overwhelming mutant wolfsbane. And maybe he could find the original plant, the one the chemical slipped into his food had come from. If Stiles could find it, there was a chance Deaton could create an antidote. That was what people did with snake venom and things, right? He hadn't actually asked if it was possible, but he'd only thought of it after leaving the vet and getting in the Jeep.

Rain was pounding on the roof. It had smelled fresh outside and cars sent up spray as they went past. Stiles called his dad and asked him to order ahead with the pizzas for dinner. They both deserved it, quite frankly. With the windscreen wipers on, distracted by the grey and the distant rumble of thunder, it was easy for Stiles to miss the figure standing on the corner.

It wasn't until his third slice that Stiles thought to ask his dad under whose name the small Hawaiian had been ordered under.

The betas found nothing about the man from the cafeteria. None of the staff even remembered a new guy being hired, let alone his presence. Derek considered the possibility that Stiles had imagined it, but Scott remembered the man too, though unfortunately not his face, or anything recognizable.

'The plant is supposed to be rare. Is there a way of tracking him through a dealer or supplier?'

'Not if he didn't get it in or near Beacon Hills.'

'Has anyone actually noticed anything weird going on? Anything unusual at all? Is it possible that this wizard dude isn't actually doing anything majorly evil, and he just didn't want us sticking our noses in?'

'The guy made me try to get to second base with Stiles. He's evil.'

'You didn't seem upset at the time.'

'Back on topic. If he's in town, he has to be staying somewhere. Isaac, Erica, Boyd, you're doing a sweep of all the motels. Your main job is surveillance. Any strange smells, strange people, report back to me. Scott, Jackson, drop by anywhere Stiles is likely to have bought take-out recently and see if you can spot any suspicious behaviour.'

'I'm not spending my weekend checking out take-out joints looking for wizards.'

'You are if you want to live.'

'You are if you don't want to wind up groping Stiles.'

The general consensus was that they were looking for a lead, because really, they didn't have one. They didn't know what the wizard was doing, who he was, where he was, or why he was in town. They didn't how long the wizard must have been watching them to know that Stiles was the best-placed distraction for just about Derek's _whole pack_. The whole thing reeked, and it was making the betas anxious, and it was making Derek want to creep into Stiles' room while the boy was sleeping and slip under the covers and that was just really not okay.

Derek left the house with Scott and Jackson to make sure they did as told, the other three already barrelling through the woods and into town. Scott, Derek really didn't have to worry about. Despite his slightly dense track record, Scott didn't want Stiles to get hurt as a result of some over-eager werewolf pouncing. Jackson just didn't want to do anything he didn't feel like. Never mind that he owed the pack his life, and his humanity (in a manner of speaking). Never mind that, quite frankly, Derek would have been absolutely fine with Jackson dying, and the more the brat complained, the more Derek was inclined to explore the possibility of that still happening.

'Much as I really love the idea of stalking cheap diners all night, I have some homework and, you know, a life, so … have fun, you two,' Jackson drawled. He didn't slow when he left the house. He did slow when Derek brought a hand down hard on his shoulder.


	3. Gently Gently

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

For a more clearly defined narrative pace, I've split Derek and Stiles' scenes with their initials. Thought it might help avoid confusion.

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**S**

"Ambrosia" "Wolfsbane" yielded diddly squat online and in the library. If it was an infamous werewolf attractant, it was only infamous among hunters. Stiles entertained the thought of approaching Alison to see if he could get any information from her, but he had to wonder if the Argents knew about the wizard, or about what was happening. If they didn't, then telling them had to be a bad move.

He had to admit it was tempting, though, especially after a couple of days of being friendless and clueless. If he could find the wizard, if he could be allowed to help, if he could track down some of that freaking plant and get an antidote, that would be something. For things to keep on as they were was eventually going to become unbearable.

Lydia had noticed that he was being avoided like the plague, and said as much. Stiles explained what he could. It wasn't much, and neither of them came away without a sense of dissatisfaction, but it was better than being completely alone. Until she said she'd better stay away from him to make sure the smell wouldn't rub off on her. Werewolf-for-a-boyfriend, and everything.

Wonderful. Now the only actual person voluntarily spending time in his company was his dad, and that was fine, if slightly sad, and dammit. Stiles hated being reminded of just how limited his circle of friends actually was. Trying to get on conversational terms with Danny didn't yield much, aside from a baffled-looking Danny (who had also noticed that Stiles was being avoided by his friends and was clearly trying not to ask why). No-one else on the team was interesting (or interested, probably) and boredom was taking a serious toll.

Which is why, two nights before a full moon, Stiles used his father's badge number to get access to all recent first-time book-ins at Beacon Hill's four motels and two hotels. The cross-referencing was more tedious and eye-straining that three classes worth of homework, but at least the sense of accomplishment was paying off. Before he knew it, Stiles had narrowed down the list of male names acting suspiciously (moving from motel to motel, using a different credit card each time, having checked in a couple of days before the drama at school first started) down to two.

An odd sense of excitement, something like having had the booked tickets to a concert that doesn't allow under-eighteens and gotten the fake ID and suddenly finding himself standing in line at the door, took over Stiles and he grinned.

'I'm closing in, you little bastard,' he murmured to the names on the screen.

**D**

Scott and Jackson caught up with an odd incident regarding a pizza delivery guy having been knocked out and the pizza he was delivering – guess to who's house – stolen. But only the day after it happened. And the scent of the assailant had been washed away by the pizza delivery guy's shower and the rain on the street that night.

It was bad enough that Stiles was involved at all, but Derek wasn't going to be held responsible for dragging the boy any further into it, and so he forced Scott and Jackson to promise to keep the information within the pack. The more Stiles knew, the more he potentially had to take to the Argents, in the event that he was stupid enough to go to them, and quite frankly, Derek had enough of that to worry about.

Isaac, Erica and Boyd didn't have as much luck. It didn't help that they didn't know exactly what they were looking, smelling or hearing for. They couldn't catch a whiff of the scent that followed Stiles like a magical fog, except in places where Stiles' own smell accompanied it. None of them could remember the new guy from the cafeteria, so evidently he had slipped in simply to slip Stiles the ambrosia and then hightailed it.

Derek kept his frustration in check. The mere memory of the smell on Stiles that day made his blood burn. He didn't know if he'd be able to rein himself in like last time, not if this guy kept finding new ways to dose the boy, like he had with the pizza.

'Why don't we just keep an eye on Stiles? Like from a distance?' Scott suggested. Or, encouraged. Urged. He missed his friend. Derek could appreciate that. But no.

'It's not safe,' Derek said. 'What if he's driving home, alone, and you happen to catch his scent in the wind while you're following him? What happens if you can't control yourself, and he can't defend himself?'

'That won't happen. He's my friend,' Scott said simply. Derek never wanted to gnaw a Disney movie to death so badly.

'It's not going to be that easy.'

'You said exactly the same thing about Alison.'

'What about your relationship with Alison is easy?'

'Here it comes,' Jackson yawned in the corner. Derek turned his back on Scott, more to avoid punching his Disney prince face than anything else, and changed the subject.

The sooner they tracked the wizard down, the better. But, without that looking likely to happen soon, his betas were getting uneasy, and probably so was Stiles, and not that Stiles' feelings mattered anyway, and _what was that sound_?

Derek's ears tweaked, and he glimpsed his betas following suit, before they all wordlessly moved to different open areas of the house; Derek to the front door, Erica and Isaac to the blown-out side windows, Boyd to the rear of the house, Jackson and Scott up the stairs.

It was puzzling. He could feel it, all around the house, like an invisible fence, or a massive coil being drawn tight around his old den. They very rarely used the house any more. Whoever – whatever – was here, either followed them, or knew of them.

'What is that?' he heard Erica ask from the east side of the house.

'It feels strange. Like it's alive, but not … a person, or an animal.'

'I can't hear it, or smell it, but it's there. Like a shadow or something.'

His betas cast wary sentences out like questions, and Derek knew they expected him to answer, but he had no answer to give. Not one that didn't make him very uncomfortable to say.

'This feels like magic.'

He heard one of them scoff, and growled low in his throat. He set off from the porch at a run, and circumnavigated the surrounds of the house. Isaac followed suit, as eventually did Erica, Scott and Boyd. His heart dropped as he slowly began to recognize the smell, and the invisible barrier.

Mountain ash.

A half-mile wide perfect circle. All around his house.

Trapping them inside.


	4. Tricksy Warlock

Theodore M. Prospero. M for Merlin. Very funny. And clever, of course. Stiles felt stupid, and mildly insulted, for missing it.

He hadn't caught the wizard reference until he was going over the motel books to double-check (name number 1 had turned out to be a businessman in town to do some Casanova impressions – two waitresses and a secretary, tut tut) and saw what the initials of Theodore's name stood for. And conveniently enough, Mr Prospero wasn't in his room when Stiles went to stalk around the motel he was currently staying.

Stiles found the man's room unlocked, and decided not to take the risk of assuming it was a trap, not now that he had come so close. A quick inspection of the room produced an empty triangular surgeon's bag which snapped closed when he touched it, sending a small cloud of odd-smelling dust into his face. Aside from that, there was a pair of slippers and a dressing gown, a half-empty mug of tea on the counter, an overnight bag and, joy of joys, a clear plastic zip-lock herby-smelling bag. Stiles wondered what the odds were that this was what the ambrosia had been kept in, assuming of course that Theodore didn't have any other bad herb-based habits. A quick fossick around the room revealed no more zip-lock bags, empty or otherwise.

Stiles decided to bring an end to the search, determined to feel cheered by his small successes. With investigative skills like these, he could take his dad's job in a decade, give or take a year. There wasn't a wallet or a set of keys, but on the bedside table Stiles found a snapshot of a very familiar run-down house, surrounded by tall skinny trees and fallen leaves. It sat on top of a pad. Stiles picked up the nub of a pencil sitting beside it, and ran it gently over the pad, creating a large grey patch in the middle, punctuated by white lines. Directions. Leading from the motel to Derek's house.

Stiles picked up his phone and checked the time. He'd walked in the unlocked door only five minutes ago, and if the tepid mug of tea on the counter said anything, then Theodore I'm-So-Original Merlin Prospero had only just started off towards Hale House before he'd arrived.

And Stiles intended to beat him there.

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**D**

Try as the six of them might, there was no breaking through the ash. There was no wind to stir it, no cloud predicting rain, and no people taking scenic walks who Derek could talk into breaking the line of ash. The more impetuous betas got angry and defiant, smelling the air and refusing to come when Derek summoned them, trying in frustration to catch the scent of the one who laid the circle. Scott had tried to call Alison behind Derek's back, but fortunately (or not, Derek couldn't decide), no-one's phone worked.

'I can usually get a signal up here,' Jackson said doubtfully, trying for the third time to call Lydia. Scott had climbed halfway up a tree and was holding his phone up over his head, with an expression of disappointment.

'There aren't usually wizards in Beacon Hills,' Erica muttered. 'Are there?' she then asked, after a short pause.

'I've never met one,' Derek muttered. 'And I'd assume we'd have encountered one by now if there were. Unless this one is acting outside their code by making himself known to us.'

'Maybe he's putting his grand plan in action tonight.'

Erica tried kicking dirt onto the ash line, and growled in impotent fury when it didn't work. Derek could feel the levels of tension rising, and pushed his own impatience aside.

'Everyone back to the house.'

'What? What about the circle, and the evil wizard?' Isaac asked blankly.

'That sounds so weird when you say it out loud,' Scott commented from up in his tree.

'Being closer to the edge of the circle won't help us think up ideas how to break it. We may as well regroup at the house and try to think of something there.'

No sooner had Derek said it than a dreadfully familiar and intoxicating smell drew his undivided attention. From the strained looks on his beta's faces, now all drifting to the side of the house the smell had come from, they could smell it as keenly as he could.

'Back to the house. All of you,' Derek growled fiercely.

Boyd edged back, clamping a hand over his face. Jackson was already off like a bullet, slamming the front door behind him and thumping up the stairs. Derek could even hear him throwing himself face-down on a musty blanket. He fought the temptation to roll his eyes. In order to resist the inanely powerful smell – fucking wizard must have found a way to triple the dosage – such hysterics were probably going to be necessary.

Scott followed Boyd to the house, clutching the back of Boyd's shirt for moral support as they walked with their sleeves held over their noses and mouths, while Derek grabbed Eric and Isaac by the backs of their jackets and forcibly dragged them away from the line of ash.

Stiles drove his Jeep past Derek's car, slowing, but not stopping. Derek, grip weakening on his beta's jackets, could see Stiles' expression and how he was glancing past them at the house, around the house, for what, Derek didn't know. Stiles kept driving, right up to the edge of the circle, and Isaac and Erica were tearing free of Derek's grip ... Derek let go, and hurled himself to the front of the circle.

'Stop! Stop the car, right now!'

Stiles jammed his foot on the brakes with a shouted curse. His front tyres pushed the earth in a roll of dead leaves and dirt over the line of mountain ash, breaking it.

Stiles managed to jerk the driver's side window up before Erica could slam herself into the door, but Isaac was wrenching the passenger side door almost off its hinges, and Derek threw himself around the front of the car to drag Isaac back by his feet.

Stiles slammed the door shut and locked it, but Erica was suddenly on top of the windshield, and Derek could hear Scott wailing in the house as Boyd held him down, and Stiles was shoving the keys in the ignition and twisting, but Isaac got free from Derek and he and Erica slashed three tyres before Derek could hurl them over the car to land, rolling, on the other side. Derek leapt on top of Stiles' car and roared down at them. And that smell. The whole time, that smell filled his nostrils and he could feel his heart race and his cock jump against the inside of his jeans, and he focussed all of his attention on the two snarling betas, because he was so close to tearing into the jeep and just taking the boy for himself.

Beneath the hood of the car, below him, he could hear the pounding of Stiles' heart and the panic, the sheer terror. He clenched the edge of the hood of the car tightly, growling at the young wolves in front of him, challenging them. Together, he knew, they had a chance, if they were willing to earnestly take him on in a fight. They had grown together, been his first real two. They knew how to work effectively as a team.

He roared and propelled himself from the roof of the car to meet Erica as she kicked up off the ground, feeling Isaac tear at his temporarily exposed chest. He landed on them both and slammed them into the ground, pinning them in a flurry of claws, and shoving his left hand into his pocket in the few seconds he had to do so. Stiles had opened the passenger side door of the car, putting the immobile jeep between himself and the struggling, growling mass of fangs and rage. In desperation, unable to keep the betas down, Derek tossed his car keys in Stiles' direction.

'_Get the fuck out of here! Go!_'

.

**S**

He heard the tyres squeal as he took the corner at 40, and at any other time he would have winced in fear of what Derek would do if he found out, assuming he didn't already know, how Stiles was driving his car. But he was too dumbstruck.

The black line of dust on the ground he had glimpsed too late. The hugely out-of-control werewolves. The picture of the house, and the pad with the directions, and the unlocked motel door. It must have been a trap.

For some reason, this asshole wanted Stiles dead.

Thoughts raced through his head. Derek was right. It was best if Stiles, for his own sake and everyone else's, stayed out of it. But he was wrong, too. What would have happened if Stiles hadn't gone and broken the circle? How long would they have been left alone up there? But he nearly got himself killed, and how well would that have gone down? His father would have gone on the warpath, the Argents would take it as an excuse to step up their campaign against Derek, not to mention Scott and everyone else, and ohmygod

Stiles, for the second time that day, and third time since they met, almost ran over Derek.

He swerved onto the curb and swung open the door, instantly forgetting the ambrosia, and Derek's sense of smell, because hey, his whole car was going to smell like Stiles now anyway, so might as well air it out a little and see how the guy was doing.

'We have to stop meeting like this.'

Derek walked up stiffly, muscles working in his jaw, and held out his hand. Stiles, nonplussed for a second, realized that he was holding the car keys, and handed them over.

They stood like that at the side of the road, staring at each other, and Stiles writhed with discomfort, eventually looking away, up at the trees, up and down the road, and whistling.

'So. Assuming the kids are all locked down, and you're taking your car back, I guess I'm walking home.'

Derek's eyebrows drew closer together and Stiles hoped he was imagining the flicker of red. And then, in the most disapproving voice that God could think of to give to a sullen, stubbly, PMS-ing agent of death,

'We need to talk.'


	5. Sleepy Head

**D**

'So then, I drove over to your house to see if I could help, but apparently he got there first, and the rest you know.'

Stiles hadn't stopped for breath. Derek was torn between leftover murderous rage, and being mildly impressed that Stiles had figured out more in one day than his betas had in three.

'He found a way to dose you with it again, today, or last night at the very latest. The smell … we could all smell you as you were driving up. And they lost control before you even stopped your car.'

Stiles' eyes widened, and he looked Derek up and down for a moment.

'So you …'

'I can manage it.' Just. 'Stay away from his motel. Don't look him up. We'll find out where he's getting the plant from, what he's doing, and …'

'I'm being completely left out of the loop, aren't I?' Stiles asked, and Derek could practically see him deflating, upset, and caught off-guard.

'It's for your own safety,' Derek said, determined not to apologize. He tried to mean it. It was true. Logically speaking. It had to be. Otherwise he was hurting this sincere, painfully weak, painfully strong, honest boy for no reason, when every impulse was telling him to comfort Stiles, stroke that stupid duck fluff buzz cut, tuck him into an embrace and hold him as tightly as those fragile bones would allow, where he'd be safe and tell him that it was going to be fine, that he'd fix it all. Pheromone-enhanced or not, it felt wrong _not_ to pull Stiles close and feel that human heart race under his own fingertips. But the moment Derek gave in to that desire was the moment they officially lost to Theodore's manipulative game.

'No, no, I get it,' Stiles said. Derek tried not to notice how his hands twitched and his whole body seemed to dart uncomfortably. 'I'm not pack. I shouldn't have involved myself and gotten in the way, it was stupid. It was playing right into that guy's hands, doing what he intended me to do. Interfere.'

Derek tried not to wince. Did Stiles know how vulnerable he looked? How much of his disappointment, his embarrassment, he was wearing on his face? Stiles turned and walked briskly down the road. Standing still became almost impossible. Every limb, every organ was screaming out _you have to follow him, don't let him go off on his own like this, he's suffering, he's alone, he's helpless, he needs you, he's yours to protect, if he cries it's your fault, if he is in pain it's your fault, he is only yours, not anyone else's, he is yours and he needs you_

It was deafening. But it was false. It was the ambrosia talking.

Wasn't it?

**S**

Stiles felt his jaw clench as he forced himself to walk normally, to keep walking and not look back or slow down. No way in hell was Derek going to know how badly Stiles wanted to curl up in a ball and shrink into miserable nothingness.

He was going to burst into tears, but he was going to do it alone and with dignity, dammit.

It was late when Stiles got home, and he hadn't thought of how to explain his lack of a car to his dad. He was crashing from the adrenaline, and more tired than he'd felt in a long time. As soon as he got in, he stripped, threw his clothes with more violence than was necessary into the laundry basket, put on his oldest pair of tracksuit pants and a worn t-shirt and went hunting through the cupboards for comfort food. He wasn't normally a binge-eater; when he was unhappy, he was more likely not to eat at all. But something about his rundown mood commanded pasta. Or maybe a massive pie. With cream.

He piled food onto a plate and took it upstairs, and that night, after his dad came home and they shared a brief moment of understanding weariness and concern for each other, Stiles trudged upstairs and went to bed early.

And then was woken at midnight, by the sound of something large collapsing to the floor from his window.

The blinds clacked against the wall where the black shape had disturbed them, making Stiles jump. His heart stopped in his chest.

The wolf was humongous. How it had gotten through his window was no-one's guess. He wondered if his father had heard it and woken up.

The wolf, dark and shaggy and red-eyed, swayed a little on its feet. Stiles' heart started beating again (rapidly). He didn't know how, but he knew absolutely who this was.

'Derek, are you … sleepwalking?'

Derek's head sagged low, tongue lolling and eyes drooping as if in affirmative response, and he tumbled onto Stiles' bed. Stiles fought the mad urge to squeal in shock, slapping his hand over his mouth, but the wolf whined – Derek fucking _whined_ – and pushed his wet nose against the back of Stiles' hand, up under his forearm, treading smudges of dried mud onto his bed sheets, putting an unfair amount of weight on Stiles' legs as he scrambled drunkenly into Stiles' arms. It was stupidly, unbelievably dog-like, and could have even been cute if it wasn't giving Stiles a heart attack. Derek's full-blown alpha form was easily four times the size of the average German Shepard, and even the station's police dogs intimidated him. And here was this humongous black monster, red-eyed and fanged, creeping in through his bedroom window and refusing to leave, with every possibility of waking up at an awkward moment.

Stiles could barely believe, as Derek tucked his muzzle into the gap of his shirt and snuffled like a pup, that Derek wasn't reacting to Theodore's drug.

But maybe … he was. Maybe this was something they hadn't told him, what Deaton had meant when he said that it "messes with a werewolf's natural drives, the way the other kinds do, but in a unique way", and "jump starts a different instinct, so the whole individual is overwhelmed, both human and wolf". Maybe … maybe the drug in Stiles' system wasn't making the werewolves around him aggressive.

Maybe it was making them affectionate_. Out-of-control_ affectionate.

_Oooh fuck._

If that was true, Stiles had no chance of escaping Wolf-Derek's "affections" without waking him up, and even then, what if Derek lost it?

What should he _do_?

Even as Stiles freaked out, half-pushing Derek's face away, hands slipping on his unexpectedly soft fur and dislodging a dead leaf or three, Derek only seemed (bizarrely) determined to curl up on Stiles. Stiles inched up against the pillows, drawing up his knees between Derek and his torso. Derek whined again, and his long raspy tongue dragged a sticky path up Stiles' face. In the shocked stillness that followed that, Derek managed to get his head, neck and shoulders into Stiles' lap, and settled down there, dropping his barrel chest between Stiles' knees and tucking one front paw into the crease between Stiles' belly and his thighs, the other underneath him.

It was uncomfortable, and incredibly comfortable, at the same time. It was scary, and reassuring. After what felt like ten minutes of Derek napping contentedly like that, cuddled into Stiles' body like a warm furry alligator, Stiles began to feel genuinely sleepy. He couldn't move. He couldn't possibly wake Derek now, not by shaking him, and not by shouting in his ear. If the ruckus at the window hadn't woken his father, shouting would. And sleep wasn't just knocking at the door now. It was kicking it down.

Stiles hesitantly rested his hands on the back of Derek's broad neck. It was so quiet, after the hubbub of Derek fumbling into bed, with his massive paws and swinging tail and his big fuzzy face. It wasn't right, that this should feel so peaceful. He could feel Derek's breathing, the slow heartbeat against his leg.

Stiles leaned back into the pillows, and as he drifted off, he could have sworn he felt them. Red eyes watching over him.


	6. Hands All Over

**D**

For the first time in six and a half years, Derek had a good dream.

It was warm, and he was in someone's arms. Someone was stroking his ears. No-one had ever done that. A shiver passed up his spine. Every sense was tingling with pleasure. It was blissfully silent, save for the ever-present far off rumble of the road and distant wildlife. The softest morning light reached his eyes. The most delicious smell he had ever smelled filled his nose. Not chocolate, not herbs or coffee steam or mown grass or citronella. It was … better. Infinitely. Not fresh or old, or spicy or minty, just … warm. Close. Somebody. A person. The usual acceptable, unavoidable combination of skin, hair, sweat, the bare hint of food, and that underlying unique scent that, for everyone, is just a bit different. But this was perfect. This was more than just a tolerable "person". This was a sweet, beautiful, lickable, irresistible person.

Fingertips drew a path right under Derek's ears, and he melted into the touch, stretching his neck. He couldn't help himself. He was in heaven. He was in ecstasy. The fingertips tickled from his jawline upward, stroking the sensitive area where the back of his ears met his head, and a defeated whimper escaped his lips.

Then the fingers stopped dead still, and Derek heard a sound, a thump-thumpa-thump right under his ear, pick up rapidly. Sluggishly, his body responded, his eyes opening, bewildered for a moment at his strange surroundings.

Then he felt the body beneath his. The familiarity of the narrow arms, the fragile ribs, the bony legs. And that smell.

_Fucking. Wizard. _

_Was going. _

_To die._

Derek pushed himself up on his forearms and looked down at the stunned, barely-awake teenager beneath him. There was a moment of soundless recognition. A long moment. Then, quietly,

'I can't breathe.'

Derek shifted his weight off Stiles' body. He wondered if he had spent the whole night like that, and come to think of it, how and why the fuck he landed in Stiles' bedroom, let alone in his bed, let alone _on top of Stiles_.

'How did I get here?'

Stiles blinked. He must have only woken up when Derek … oh God, he'd _whimpered_. He hoped Stiles didn't remember that.

'I think you came here in your sleep and just kind of ... made yourself at home.'

'I don't sleepwalk.'

Stiles rolled over and looked at his carpet, grumbling awkwardly. 'See for yourself.'

There were marks on the floor, from the window, all the way up to the bed. Paw-shaped marks, tracked in faint smudges of dirt. Derek looked at his hands and feet. Some of it was on the sheets. He wasn't very dirty, but he wasn't clean. He must have wandered all the way from the abandoned station, where he had intended to spend the night, to Stiles' house in his sleep. In full alpha form.

'If anyone saw me, we're in deep trouble,' Derek said, becoming uncomfortably aware of his nakedness, and Stiles' smell, _ohgod it's all over me and it's incredible_

'You're in trouble.'

'What?'

'You. You are in trouble, if you were seen. We're trying to keep me out of it, remember?'

The discomfort shifted from irritated embarrassment to slightly unhappy on Stiles' part, and Derek forced the feeling to the back of his head.

'If anyone saw me coming here, I don't think it matters whether we're trying to keep you out of it or not. Hopefully no-one did see. If you're asked, you'll need a cover story.'

'I'll tell anyone who asks that I'm dog-sitting for the station,' Stiles said, after a wide-eyed moment's pause. Derek didn't ask what the sour bite in his voice was about. He had to get back to his den, and he had to do it dressed.

Stiles tumbled out of bed, and rummaged in his dresser until he found a pair of black tracksuit pants, and undid the drawstring. 'These might fit,' he said, tossing them at Derek. 'Help yourself to a t-shirt, if you want one.'

Then he scooped up a pair of jeans and a shirt, and removed himself to the bathroom.

Derek picked up the pants and tried not to feel the strangeness, and the foreboding glow of warmth in his chest, in his abdomen, that came from knowing that he'd be going back to his den wearing Stiles' pants. The thought of wearing anything of Stiles' had irked him in the past, but now it sent a bolt of heat through him, and guiltily, he wondered if it would prolong the scent, the mingling smell on his skin of him and Stiles –

_Shit_. The others would be able to smell Stiles all over him. They would want to know what had happened, or they would decide for themselves what had happened, and how would that make him look? It would make him look weak. Like a hypocrite. Keeping Stiles all to himself and banning the others from seeing him at all. Sleeping with him at night, returning wearing Stiles' clothes, covered in that smell.

He could hear Stiles falling to pieces in the bathroom. His hard breathing, a tetchily muttered "asshole". Derek let himself feel guilty, let Stiles call him an asshole. Just this once. Only days after dismissing Stiles from the pack altogether, hours after criticizing him for his behaviour, he went and cozied up to Stiles in his sleep. Derek pulled on the pants (a little tight around the thighs, but Stiles was skinny, and what did he expect), and couldn't avoid listening to Stiles lose his composure one room away. The kid was barely standing up. His heart rate was all wrong, and even a room and a closed door away, the smell of sweat was starting to –

_Panic attack_

Derek vaulted into the bathroom and caught Stiles just as he was sinking to the floor. He was hyperventilating and shivering, eyes wide open in what looked like shock. Stiles tried to push him away and tug him closer, neither of them knowing which, or what to do, and all Derek could do was hold Stiles, arms wrapped around his shoulders and hope to God he didn't faint or have a heart attack, although heart attacks didn't happen to teenagers who had panic attacks, at least he didn't think they did, but Stiles was freaking out and his skin was too hot and it was Derek's fault and he didn't know what to do and he felt so useless and it was his fault and he caused this. He caused this.

It felt like an age. It felt like five minutes. Stiles returned to normal jerkily, slowly, and Derek realized he had started to rock slightly, clutching Stiles to his bare chest and holding his head to the side so he could breathe. He stopped. Neither of them moved, even when Stiles was back to normal and his head was resting gently under Derek's chin, lips parted and chest rising and falling instead of jumping.

'I'm sorry,' Derek said. It felt like the first time he had ever said it, at least genuinely. He almost felt like he was the one who had had the attack.

'No,' Stiles said weakly. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … I don't even know why … I'm sorry.'

Stiles was still much too warm, but Derek didn't want to let him go. He didn't think about why that was, or what it meant He didn't think about whether he should. He kept his arms around Stiles and kept him close, felt Stiles' slow steady inhales, knowing that, this close, the combined smell of them would be evident to Stiles too, and the way his blood flowed, the way his muscles relaxed, it was finally clear Stiles wasn't uncomfortable. That was something. And Derek wasn't taking that away from either of them, not just yet.

Stiles rearranged his legs, and it was definitely a choice now. They weren't curled up together out of exhaustion, or panicked necessity. He moved his arms so Stiles could move his, and rest so his shoulder wasn't digging into Derek's chest. Shyly, Stiles relaxed completely into Derek and let himself be held, and fuck. It was about the most inadvisable thing Derek had done, but he was sure as hell going to keep doing it.

.

**S**

The first time, snuggling, that is, had been weird and maybe it could be called accidental, and one of them had been technically unconscious throughout the whole thing. And now the second time it was weird and maybe accidental but now definitely deliberate, because Stiles was fine, he was more than fine, and Derek was holding him. Stiles felt like he'd just had a really terrified orgasm or jumped off a cliff and now he was wrapped up in Derek and they were cuddling, on the bathroom floor, which was not entirely comfortable but he would be pretty happy to just not move. For, like, a year.

But all good things must end, and Derek moved one hand from Stiles' back. Stiles prepared himself to sit up and crawl away into an abyss somewhere, but the hand was suddenly back, just under his chin, lightly settled with the thumb right under his bottom lip and he felt his head being tilted up, and wow, Derek's face was closer than he thought.

'How are you feeling?'

His voice was low. Wrecked.

'Amazing.'

Way to give away far too fucking much. Ambrosia or not, Stiles was going to get punched in the fa …

Or kissed. Kissed was fine, too.

Actually, kissing was amazing.

Derek closed his mouth over Stiles', sliding together until they fit perfectly, the tip of his tongue tracing the inner line of Stile's lips until he opened them enough to let it through, let it lick against his own and suddenly his whole body was responding, and he'd never actually kissed anyone, not like this, not except a peck on the cheek once in elementary school but Derek's tongue was all over his tongue and if he didn't stop him, this was going to go somewhere very forbidden very quickly.

But he couldn't stop. He didn't want to. He didn't have the will, at least not one to challenge the onslaught of sex that was a keyed-up Derek. Derek's hand was sliding up his thigh and cupping his half-hard erection, and his mouth was passionately clinging to Stiles, invading, doing a very in-depth impression of what sex was probably like, and the more intense it became, the more Stiles gave in, and the more Stiles gave in, the more Derek lost it, and the more Derek lost it, the more intense it became.

Suddenly Stiles was being pulled onto Derek's lap, legs apart, and Derek was hoisting him up and carrying him back to the bedroom, mouths still glued together and then Stiles was on his back, Derek towering over him and bucking against him and ooooouuuuaagahalvafiva that felt good. Very very good. Derek tore Stiles' pants in an effort to pull them down and he must have pulled the ones Stiles gave him off because Stiles' cock was suddenly being gripped tight against Derek's and the surprise, the feeling of wrongness, _this is all going way too fast, this is exactly the kind of thing that they were trying to avoid, this is exactly why I was off limits in the first place_, but it was impossible to think, impossible to act, with Derek's hand sliding over him, Derek's cock rubbing against his, Derek groaning right into his mouth and grinding up against him in sheer, out-of-control ecstasy. Derek twisted his wrist with his hand tight around the base of their cocks, making Stiles moan and dig his fingers into Derek's shoulders. Derek knew how to use his hand. He barely even looked like Derek any more, not the strict, controlled Derek Stiles thought he was. His free hand dragged the front of Stiles' shirt up until it was up to his neck, and he palmed Stiles' chest as his tongue fucked Stiles' mouth. He was touching everywhere. His arms, his muscles and his stubble, everywhere.

Derek's cock was thick and pulsing against Stiles' and he was pumping fast, jerking them off with the same sense of ruthlessness with which he did everything, and his free hand was pinching Stiles' nipple and it was all too much. He slowed, and then he picked up the pace again, thumbing the head of his cock, rubbing and teasing and slowing down and suddenly speeding up again.

Derek convulsed above him and something warm, wet, obscene, splashed against Stiles' bare torso. An absurd sense of pride, combined with a crushing sense of guilt, shot through him as he came, mingling their come in the sweat on his skin, numbly aware that, throughout the whole thing, Derek hadn't once broken the kiss.

And he still didn't. Coming down from the high, from orgasm, Derek moved his lips against Stiles', the sound of hands on bare skin and flesh giving way to the wet, intimate sound of desperate kissing. He relaxed onto Stiles until they were pressed together, face to knees, heedless of the thick layer of moisture on his belly and chest. Stiles' whole body felt impossibly sensitive.

One hand, as if of its own accord, went from Derek's shoulder to his neck, then up to his ear. Derek melted into a puddle on Stiles as he stroked and scratched behind Derek's ears, gentle and teasing. The kiss broke, and Derek's head flopped to the side, face tucked into Stiles' neck so he could continue to scratch behind Derek's ears and make him make those low, humming, pleased sounds.

It was absurd. It was like being on another planet, where no rules whatsoever existed. It was like being in wonderland. Derek's mouth resumed its attack, this time on Stiles' neck, lazily and wetly sucking on a patch of skin.

Stiles didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he could say.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I don't actually have a clue what you're supposed to do for someone who is having a panic attack. If you're supposed to give them room, or what. I apologize to anyone who does know, and for whom the experience of the scene was in any way ruined.


End file.
